reascended the great staircase.

"I shall sift this mystery to the bottom," thought he. "I shall foil the
conspirators, if so they be, with their own weapons; art with art;
chicane with chicane; duplicity with duplicity."

He was now in the long passage, which we have just spoken of, and
glancing back and before him, to ascertain that no chance eye discerned
him, he boldly entered mademoiselle's chamber. Her writing desk lay upon
the table. It was locked; and coolly taking it in his hands, Marston
carried it into his own room, bolted his chamber-door, and taking two or
three bunches of keys, he carefully tried nearly a dozen in succession,
and when almost despairing of success, at last found one which fitted the
lock, turned, and opened the desk.

Sustained throughout his dishonorable task by some strong and angry
passion, the sight of the open escritoire checked and startled him for a
moment. Violated privilege, invaded secrecy, base, perfidious espionage
upbraided and stigmatized him, as the intricacies of the outraged
sanctuary opened upon his intrusive gaze. He felt for a moment shocked
and humbled. He was impelled to lock and replace the desk where he had
originally found it, without having effected his meditated treason; but
this hesitation was transient; the fiery and reckless impulse which had
urged him to the act returned to enforce its consummation. With a guilty
eye and eager hands, he searched the contents of this tiny repository of
the fair Norman's written secrets.

"Ha! the very thing," he muttered, as he detected the identical letter
which he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few days
before. "The handwriting struck me, ill-disguised; I thought I knew it;